


angel, angel, what have i done?

by boldly (techburst)



Category: DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: M/M, Twincest, and won't let vergil either, but he doesn't run away, dante doesn't use his words, obscure sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 00:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8122675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/techburst/pseuds/boldly
Summary: He doesn't know how to stay. Only to dip and dodge, slither and swerve through the shades of gray around him, because gradients mean facets, and black and white is everything sure.





	

The concept of home – both as a tangible and _in_ tangible thing – tends not to mean so much when memories have been cleared away. Reset. Wiped into the clean slate upon which the foundation for all that follows will be built; all the anger, hate, distrust. 

Dante remembers, but only because _he_ made it possible, and even though the chord has already been struck, it reverberates like a hollow thing inside him whenever he lets it sneak up. When it rounds and rears, punching through the walls he's put up for his _own_ protection like they'd been constructed of paper. Thin, flimsy, leaving him breathless and vulnerable, the latter of which brings on a whole _slew_ of other things. None of which he wants to make his own. 

**(** Uncertainty. Fear. Like any forming constant could, in the span of his next heartbeat, fall back into a variable. Leave him stripped of the _what-ifs_ , raw and ruined to the _might-have-beens._

He's never had a reason to stay in one place, and he's only ever been good at running. Fast, hard, just enough to keep his ghosts and demons snapping at his heels and little else. **)**

The nights are still his, for what little they're worth; shadowed and heavy with the promise of keeping company until dawn breaks, a body to warm his bed, curves to keep his interest until the novelty wears thin and then out completely. The promises keep coming with each smile and drink shared, but fall short when it comes time to collect, and he's left with the dry taste of _something missing_ on the back of his tongue, an ache in his chest and an itch at the tips of his fingers. 

His body knows what it wants, even when his heart dares not to listen. 

**(** He doesn't know _how_ to stay. Only to dip and dodge, slither and swerve through the shades of gray around him, because gradients mean _facets_ , and black and white is everything sure. 

He'd been sure before. Funny, how that changes with a word. 

_I've been looking for you, **brother**._ **)**

The quiet lent by the hour blankets the newly-familiar space in an eerie sort of complacency that would feel out of place anywhere else, the soft sounds that count for white noise, the _clicks_ and _whirs_ of technology far beyond his comprehension almost orchestral in the breaking of the otherwise undisturbed night. It's too late to be considered an early night for anyone, but early enough by his standards to briefly consider tacking on another hour before calling it quits – but now that he's found himself back in the space that should equate what _could_ be considered the closest thing he's ever had to _home_ , it feels like too much effort to change his mind. 

**(** It's easier to _stay._

_… Since fucking when?_ **)**

The room he gravitates to is not his own; it's far too clean, boasts far too many pretentious pieces of artwork adorning the walls to even come close, but the welcoming presence that lies prone in the darkness is more than enough incentive to keep him padding closer. Shedding boots, jacket, jeans, shirt as he goes, leaving himself bare as he dares as he slides between sheets that bear a ridiculously high threadcount. They feel like silk, but he has to wonder if even his _brother_ can be so wasteful when it comes to certain luxuries. 

What does he know, anyway? Sheets are fucking _sheets._

Vergil stirs as the scent of liquor, smoke, _Dante_ stains the air around him, a furrow of his brow and a subtle wrinkle of his nose to indicate his just-short-of-offended _sensitive_ sensibilities, and he almost turns when hands begin their practiced wandering. First, over the curve of a hip, just above the band of sleep pants that have shifted in the interim to flaunt more of that inviting strip of skin. Second, sliding upward, nails scratching over fabric as fingers count each rise and dip of a rib. Third, upward still, palm pressing briefly to the steady beat of his heart until fingers find the curve of a collarbone. The hollow of a throat that works against a dry swallow. The swell of an Adam's apple. 

_Brother –_

_Nn-nn._

Negation sounds as a rumble at the nape of the other's neck, the hint of teeth dragging as a reprimand over the first notch of his spine. Sharp, but barely so, like a whisper of breath against the shell of an ear, the softest exhalation that asks without asking. 

_Don't talk. You'll fuck it up._

**(** Words have never been a selling point. A strong point. Not when the shapes that fingers trace over the line of a firm-set jaw say so much more than a few words ever could; when the sleek arch of a spine into the solid presence behind it gives the only answer he really wants. 

_I want you here._ **)**

Vergil makes the inevitable decision to twist in a loose grip, hands slipping easily upward and into short-cropped hair, well-manicured nails scraping almost lazily over his brother's scalp. An action that has the other humming low, _low_ in the back of his throat and pushing almost gently into it. Even as not-so-gentle teeth leave an imprint, a bruise, a possessive sort of thing that will never belong beyond the walls of this room. 

**(** Because this is their beginning. This is their end. 

This is their apocalypse. **)**

_Careful –_ comes a soft, almost-not whisper in his next stuttering breath, something already so wholly _belonging_ to his brother that it falls short of everything else, and Dante bites _hard_ at the curve of a shoulder, nearly enough to break the skin, to taste the tang of copper and iron. Of salt and an even deeper level of sin. 

_I told you not to talk._

_Would you prefer I kept my mouth shut **entirely** , then?_

That garners a growl, a groan, a breathless sort of laugh as Vergil finds himself pressed onto his back with a warm body making room for itself between his thighs, an action rough with _want_ bringing hands to hips and pinning them tightly against the mattress. He doesn't move, but there's the sound of a smile in his voice as he raises his hands again, the too-soft pads of his fingers ghosting over shoulders, arms, the edge of a sharp jaw that seems to tremble beneath such a light, knowing touch. 

_Just … shut up._

**(** It's easier, he's convinced himself, to default to action in the face the things his heart shies away from. Like this, with his brother squirming beneath him, giving over the soft little sounds that belong to him, and him alone – 

It's easy to pretend that that's all there is. That he doesn't – 

_need._

That he doesn't find some solace in the press of hands, of lips against his own in a promise that brings with it the weight of the world, _their_ world, constricted to mere pinpoints of light along a linear plane. 

_Fuck._ **)**

Puzzle pieces don't fit like this. Metaphorically, figuratively, _literally_ – in every sense of it, they come together like a supernova, fits and bursts of that which keeps them tethered to one another in the first place. A _bang_ , and then it's finished, something new nurturing between them like the beginning of everything that had come before it. A breath in, a breath _out_ , and he doesn't realize that fingers have laced together until it's already been done, gentle touches over the backs of hands, the press of a thumb to the beat of a pulse at the inside of a wrist. 

_Thump, thump, thump._

**(** _I loved you, brother._ **)**


End file.
